el novel no

novel hasnt been taken seriously and in its jest it suffers like so many from an insecurity of identity and rather than leaping into the abyss of the doubt of identity it etches itself everywhere - in lists and boardrooms curricula and shelving decisions - but if novel could see itself so defined so mature so taught so done up so soso, wouldnt it let go a fart so huge and magnificent entire nations would wilt

it hasnt been taken seriously because it hasnt been properly understood - as in the ptolemaic world the sun was incorrectly understood to orbit around earth and in the west for millennia zero was unseen - and when these errors were corrected whole galaxies slithered into vision and effected voids of such energies our species regurgitated itself - so novel is unseen, so novel is assumed pervasively to orbit around whonym

film - almost every film innovator has said in various ways and in the langwich of their fate - to be film - shouldnt depend on literature music dance or any of the other arts - film can be linear realistic narrative whatever these mean but such are only a few of films attributes among many others including their negation and confusion - and to rejoice in itself novel too, despite and because of its much longer history and tradition than film, questions itself in womb and orgy of itself and says - i am i but im also noti, theres no need for me to be anything like what people say i have to be or am - so many other things have given the finger to whatever needs the finger - why not i or noti, for we have more fingers than all the literary apes all the agency and grant apes all the imawriter apes all even all the communicating apes alive or dead and we give them all and more to you ie all the fingers, and more

to take it and by it we mean shit seriously is to reify deify objectify novel to its ends and so destroy it - take novel to god and there novel becomes amorphous mutable unlocatable distributed ungraspable without boundary or definition unattributable chimerical a mise en abyme without origin or end recursively without circumference and once in these spaces of attributes without attributes novel can transcend itself through death, that process transcendence of oblivion that desires to inhabit blood and in inhabiting destroys its destructiveness

novel lacks a definite article, lacks definiteness - so, not the novel as a generic literary or commercial commodity class - or a novel a specific instance of the former - but novel, a substantive without substance, a recursive rerun of the recurrence of re

faire bande à part

its easy to explain why novels reached this state - its misunderstood mind and its relations geometries measurements - minds so extreme now who isnt scared of it - you should be - but not to give up extreme mind but rather cognition within extreme mind and return mind to wildness spontaneity impulse whimsy ie to place mind in nature rather than technology - this placing is what present charismatic political appeals are doing but in simulation and its the simulation of spirit that has horrifying implications in the reality of the physical and is the danger

actual wildness of mind - if it still is mind and not just wildness in all its stupidity - struggles hourly minutely with ethics - the ethics of itself

mind has become too distant from novel and novel to live wants mind and novel to be indistinguishable, novel doesnt belong to culture it belongs to mind and mind belongs to earth nay is earth so novels earth and not culture or society or whonymity or that thing over there on your nightstand or a bookshelf of your heart

we say a particular usually literary novels incapable of being turned into film despite occasional attempts, but novels incapable of being turned for all it runs is a return and in all this running it too turns

novels a joke and if it doesnt see the joke, that the joke is serious, why play

do we have anything else to say on novel

yes

fukky intervoos a heresiarch

after convincing plilt puttus to take doo to the zoo and hopefully keep them there fukkys finally able to get stoodio doo to themself for a proper civilized award losing intervoo and heres heresiarch delaurus chyme straight from a night of heavy drinking at awang yaacob and youre looking pretty good chyme we all know what those nights are like yes

haha fuk tomorrows gonna be hell

haha ditto chyme its so good not to be talking to doo

wheres doo at

doohaps and hopes in the zoo haha

o haha theres a place for doo in the zoo as there are many places for zoo in doo

lets go posthaha and get to the part where we take ourselves seriously

always willing to follow fuk to earnest and weighty spaces that shit on the juvenescence of jest

your recent piece mrt or is it morte

why choose

has lit the pot in the parties of a few uncertain brains and the ilea are wondering

ilea

the brain gut axis councils that discuss art without end or reason theyre wondering chyme what morte or mrts really about

its about what its about as usual even as everythings about what everythings about use the thing to show and be the thing and explain it

this intervoos a collaboration among the janus group canal plus and oiaio the truth branch of ai though by truth here we dont mean truth but the strokes of truth as they cut off essential supplies to mind

while some of the old favs are back okra the mrt doktor silinki buttarsveld our very own gek poh stoodio the sant hagiopolis a number of new exciting characters are introduced theres a strange sequentiality to it despite all its nonsequituring 

as you know fuk films very influential for us and while we love many directors theres only a few we love very much and two of these llinás and buñuel particularly the formers revolutionary take on storytelling in la flor and historias extraordinarias particularly the latters the phantom of liberty these on the autonomous stage of consciousness anyway brought morte mrt morty on though as you understand causalitys not really a thing for us it was in fact after rewatching phantom after a long respite that we immediately knew this piece was being inspired

i see a referent of an attribution of the morte called word stuck in my mons hairs and i take a monsie of it and send it to my mother in the monumental mound

phantom of course has seven or more depending on how we count stories that transition into the next through a gentle though often surprising and always amusing visual legerdemain

although the final scene doesnt loop back to the first and we wanted as frequently with theatre of the absurd a narrative circle

but this is text not film and youre prevented from using buñuels visual techniques of narrative transition

this was the first of many challenges it was obvious we couldnt literally copy buñuels transitions but we could remain in their spirit their phantom if youll permit me the liberty

talk a bit about these transitions chyme

when chymas murdered during a home invasion her text mysteriously disappears along with her and after this piece by piece metaphor by pataphor all texts books literature song dance painting art until were here alone with ourselves and gorging our maws like carcinogenic suns

number ones being read by the protagonist of number two who goes to share their coprolith with hemipene who lives in the garbage receptacle at the other end of the paya lebar platform but hemipenes not there and in fact has left with the manager of surveillance this is number three to be in the gek poh stoodio audience and on the way nabs a tract named mom and bored by the intervoo sorry fuk in number four opens mom and reads

then there seems like a bit of a rupture

the set should be bare other than two furry animal chairs both fuk and chymus naked with bulging phantasmachimera in place of their genitalia poised crouching as if about to leap at one another and a balcony in the distance with hemipene reading and doo plilt and others unidentified lurching suspiciously around and occasionally moaning

quite literally as we meet lorol whos taking a dump on acid in an mrt washroom cubicle and theres all these shenanigans between her and the very gross bulk of a he man next door and while its not obvious in number five itself it becomes or should become so soon that lorols dump is actually number four or mom and the shitting episode is a metaphor for aesthetic creation then in number six oiaios on an impossibly crowded bukit gombak platform a post electronic band playing at the other end which is sonically incomprehensible and offensive to everyone but oiaio death warnings are coming over the public address system and in spite of all this oiaios cogitating about number five which it turns out she wrote 

and now it starts getting fun

have you tried wordies theyre bold words with all the shit wont you try wordies for words are the best source of wit theyre wispy and raunchy the whole year through the skiddies never tire of them and neither will you so just try wordies the best bombast in all the lands

in number seven a poofessor in the university of mrt for the mrt contains everything you need from birth to death and beyond is lecturing on the comma or more specifically a comma that loco the author of number six has apparently placed as the only punctuation mark but in our edition anyway doesnt appear number eight revealing that the poofessors speaking has emancipated the comma from its text and its running around getting depressed by its insignificance hopping into someones hair and transiting to tanah merah where in its disorientation and despair falls down a vent into a drink and number nine has depressed inebriated comma conversing with a buxomy drunk equally depressed customer here it gets bizarre the comma leaps into her cleavage eventually making it into her vagina and y this is the customer gets so aroused by this curvy punctuation mark running around inside her sex she has to leave the bar which is way under the station and this is the first and only time we get out of the mrt into the outside air and finds a private place to orgasm and as she does she records the first line of number one

so mort is really about writing

this intervoo is being mismanaged by jumping doos in an arse wisp factory under the sea in a nonoassys burden in the waves just after rhoda suicides

writing reading creativity with some alcohol sex ghosts music elevators shit and cemeteries thrown in for the commons but nothing goods just about something so mort also continues our themes of metro chthonia adventuring form and technique as dysfunction content as movement and material as geometry skullarship as a comic necessity blurring of pretension and truth communication as the broken numinous and text as theatre among of course many other themes well leave the unreader not to discover

as brecht müller boal and now many others aimed to diminish or remove the divisions between actor and spectator and before them artaud like a volcanic tsunami laid a foundation for a confusion of art and life so doo aims to diminish the divisions between text and meat

literature becomes theatre by means of removing the reader and on this stage of absence the audience which is whonymity itself distilled into words acts out an unknown script

this chyme characters a pompous ass says fuk aloud as he urinates in a flowerpot during a commercial break a veritable monument to vacuous erudition a preening intellect performing a grotesque pantomime of profundity each laboured aphorism dripping with the unctuous sheen of borrowed wisdom unfolding like some malformed origami crane a pathetic testament to fatuous selfregard resembling the flatulent echoes in a marble mausoleum blissfully obtuse to the yawning chasm between their pretence and actual perspicacity a pusillanimous parasitism upon genuine thought swaddled in polysyllabicism disguising the mewling insipidity beneath a craven forger trading in debased intellectual currency while fancying themself a philosopher king a peacock strutting through an aviary of eagles mistaking its own gaudy impotence for majesty mistaking obscurity for depth they quote european intellectuals at dinner parties but cant identify parsley just footnotes yearning for an audience recycled insights originality as thin as the paper in their outofprint kierkegaard anthology 

the author is simply another character in their novel and to treat the author as something separate from the novel to treat it as something special as more real dimensional pecuniary etc is to enter the very delusion arts designed to break us free from

void gives voice to voices

one says that the innovation the socalled experimental attempt to ward off reification is best achieved by theatre and the other arts from novels and films to poetry painting and musical performance even aleatory performance are structurally and materially less qualified to do so this is a saying we in the dooverse are testing for we believe and have faith in literatures capacity to be as or more qualified than the other arts in dereifying techniques by using the very agent of reifying danger the word against itself through giving words descendants words the agency character dimensionality and kenosis societys constructed to deny them

what were wondering now unreader reading is whether your underwears as wonderful as mine if it sings the macarena if it walks the plank as easily as virtue how many active mines and bones your psychic archaeological expeditions have turned up today and if none how long youve been this lazy and dishonest 

distance between audience and stage life and art name and unknowing is inversely proportional to alienation so then the trick and it is a trick ie its an act of magic that only those long and painfully trained in very specific forms of magic can successfully perform is to diminish the distance to an extent that its effectively removed and abrahadabra presto ipssissima אברא כדברא sator ajji majji la tarajji jorges borges open shamash shammu alakazam jantar mantar jadu mantar ananasakäämä bibbidibobbidiboo тень знай своё место ala peanut butter sandwiches or whatever the alienations gone too

any unreader who identifies without subtraction or addition without algebra or ingenuity without flapidation or bombostication without lysol or doritos in thickness or in stealth in witches or in horror the portions of this doo entry or output that were written wholly by ai in order to win a trip for nineteen to tierra santa in buenos aires where youll be bound to and rise with jesus every hour for 24 days should submit in nonuplate on genocided trees along with three flaps of megasize chocolate oat crunch cheerios and a video of their asshole lipsynching who let the dogs out a solution to the hodge conjecture a practical guide to subverting capitalism and a 13 act play exploring tretyakovs relationship to the rise and reification of identity as indemnity to mrs heinera benyapin schlovovski of the first baptist church of st louis at 3100 bell avenue 63106 before earths menopause overtakes us all

thats it volks and vagons only hemipenes in the audience as usual but everyone had an ok time and were no further ahead than when we were born thanks so much chyme hope to see you in another life

the other lifes this one fuk

you can purchase mort mrt or morte at any ooQstore with a few mons hairs and a thimbleful of sex juice signing off from stoodio doo 283 metres under gek poh this has been delaurus chyme and fukky risotto dooing it up in the abyss of the oblivion of texts